


Fire in my heart

by mitsuki_yuriko



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Changmin needs a hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Magic-Users, Minor Character Death, Yunho needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 04:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18045488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitsuki_yuriko/pseuds/mitsuki_yuriko
Summary: Yunho had always had an affinity with fire. He was drawn to its fiery red tendrils, how it flickered and twirled in a passionate dance.Changmin had always had an affinity with water. He was terrified of the way it beckoned him, drawing him in and drowning him in the blue depths.





	1. Yunho

Yunho had always loved fire.

For as long as he could remember, he had always been drawn to its fiery red tendrils, how it flickered and twirled in a passionate dance.

 

His first memory is of being caressed by the gentle warmth. He much preferred the soft tendrils of flame over the blanket his mother liked to wrap him in. When he manoeuvred the thick cotton to his twirling red companion, he giggled a baby gurgle as he watched it wrinkle, shrinking as it became scorched black, before disappearing into fine dust. If his mother sighed and complained that this was the  _third_ blanket he had ruined, well, he didn't know anything of it.

 

When he was two, he would spend long hours playing with the fire, laughing in delight as the orange and red danced in circles around his head. He would reach and grab at the flaming ribbons, which always elusively evaded his chubby fingers. When he grew tired, he would snuggle down amongst the warmth and comfort and rest atop the embers.

He was told, much later on and with no small degree of horror, that his mother had found him sleeping in the fireplace, surrounded by fire with clothes burned off, but completely unharmed.

 

When he was four, he realised that if he concentrated very, very hard, he could call fire to his fingertips, could create a ball of it in his hands and throw it around. The fire was never harsh, nor dangerous like his parents had said – it was crackling, and playful and gentle, flickering and graceful. But it didn't bounce well, he discovered mournfully, when he tried to bounce it off the floor and it left black marks on the carpet.

When his parents returned home his mother laughed at his attempts at being artistic, and his father replaced the entire carpet with a long-suffering sigh.

They invested in fire-proof clothing and fabrics, after that.

 

When he was six, he placed his hands on the old wooden dining table, and laughed in delight at the black handprint he leaves behind. His mother was less amused when she saw the six-year-old scorched handprint he had left in the family heirloom, blackened and burned half an inch into the wooden surface.

It became a family tradition of sorts, after that. While other families marked their children's growth with pencil markings along a vertical column, the Jung family market their son's growth with burned handprints in the dining table, one for each year, lined up in neat little rows and increasing in size.

 

* * *

 

Growing up, fire was his best friend and only companion. His parents didn’t let him go out and play, too terrified of the consequences of his gift.

But it was okay, because Yunho had his flames. They never failed to keep him company when he was bored, springing up and dancing playfully with him around the house. At night, they would cast interesting shadows on the walls during story time. Mother liked that it made the house brighter and more cheerful, and Father likes that it warmed the house even in the coldest of winters.

“Our little firecracker,” his mother would say fondly with a kiss.

“Our precious flamethrower,” his father would joke, and pat him gently on the head.

 

But they were always careful not to get too close to the flames, and always warned Yunho to never show it to strangers.

Yunho yearned to play with the other village children, to learn their songs and clapping games and go to school and have fun.

But his parents always said no, always no until he could control it. He understands, really, when they explain that Yunho is special and the flames like him, but it could burn other people if they’re not careful, like the time mother burned her hand when scooping him up from the fireplace, all those years ago.

He sees the scars on her hand, sees the darkened patch of criss-cross marks left behind by the tendrils, and vows that day to never use his flames to hurt others, to always be careful.

And so he starts practising to control the fire. It's a long, painful process, filled with accidental spontaneous bursts of flame.

There is an itch in his fingers and a restlessness that comes from within, deep in his bones, when he doesn’t call on the fire. He is fidgety and on edge from the pent-up energy, but he keeps trying. He is more energetic than usual, hyperactive and with a terribly short attention span, but with practise and practise and practise, he manages to hold them down.

And when he finally let's go and call them, when he reaches deep down into his soul for the flames, the welcoming flicker of warmth is so tender and sweet that it makes the process much more satisfying.

After much begging and pleading and practising, his parents finally relent and allow him to play outside. He is cheerful and bright and friendly, and the other children welcome him almost immediately. He learns their songs and plays their clapping games and go to school and has fun and he is _so, so happy_.

He makes his first friend, a pretty boy named Son Hojun. He is gentle and easygoing, quiet and shy but with a charismatic voice. They talk and chat and play together, and become best of friends.

 

* * *

 

Winter falls.

He spends his time huddled up indoors, warmed by hot cocoa and reading books or quietly playing boardgames. The winter that year is cold, but their house is always cheerful and warm, fire burning brightly in the fireplace even without wood, powered by Yunho's gift.

On snow days, after classes finish they play outside in the winter wonderland, throwing snowballs and building snowmen and trying to catch the icy flakes on their tongues, each one a perfect six-pointed star.

“Yun,” Hojun says one day.

They were trudging home from school, footsteps slow as they crunched through the knee-deep snow. Hojun was bundled up in a warm winter coat, long scarp wrapped around his face until only half his face could be seen. His dark eyes peered out from above his scarf, and the tip of his nose was tinged pink from the cold.

“Yes?” Yunho said distractedly. He was holding Hojun’s hand, his other hand focusing on forming a small, perfect snowball. He smoothed the edges with a finger, pushing hard to make the irregular-shaped ball into a complete sphere.

“Why are you always so warm?”

Yunho glances up at the other boy, confusion in his eyes.

Hojun looks back at him, and raises their entwined hands. His fingers are icy, fingertips red from the cold and playing in the snow, while Yunho’s own are radiating warmth.

 

And that’s when Yunho realises.

Yunho is never cold, the flames burning inside keeping him warm. His mother had long given up the fight of wrestling him into winter clothes when he was literally a burning hearth. Standing in the winter snow with only cotton pants and a jumper, his hands were still warmer than Hojun’s.

He stood unmoving, as still as a marble statue in shock.

“I…….”

He couldn’t tell Hojun. He promised mother and father to never tell anyone, because for all that fire was soft and warm it could also burn. The memory of his mother’s scarred hands resurfaced in his minds eye.

No, he couldn’t tell.

Yunho shook his head helplessly.

“I… can’t tell you.”

He wanted to turn away, to continue making their way home like this conversation never took place, but Hojun’s eyes were so warm and kind, open and inviting, just like the fire that Yunho loved. Hojun clasped Yunho’s hands tightly in his own.

And still Hojun held firm, holding Yunho’s eyes with his own. “I won’t tell anyone,” he whispered.

Yunho trembled under the weight of Hojun’s gaze. “I promised not to tell.”

“I promise to keep your secret. It can be _our_ secret. We’re friends, aren’t we, Yunho?”

They were friends. They were _best_ friends. Hojun was kind and soft and warm and Yunho’s best friend, and he hated to be hiding something from him.

Surely he could trust Hojun, right?

 

Slowly, uncertainly, Yunho raised his other hand, bringing it to eye level.

Holding Hojun’s gaze, he reached deep within himself and _tugged._ With a whoosh, the flames responded to his call, pleased and eager to be let out. The red and yellow tendrils curled lazily in the palm of his hand, hovering an inch above his fingertips, no larger than a tennis ball, small yet bright as if to say hello.

Hojun’s mouth parted in a small ‘o’ of surprise, his eyes wide with surprise at the sudden burst of heat and warmth. Then his expression lit up in delight, a dazzling smile on his lips as he laughed.

 “Oh, Yunho,” he laughed lightly, and Yunho’s heart soared. “I always thought you were bright, now I know for sure. You’re like fire, personified.”

Yunho smiled in return, enlarging the flame to Hojun’s thrilled squeals.

Yunho watched as Hojun warmed his fingers over Yunho’s flames. He watched, mesmerised, as the light of the flames reflected off Hojun’s dark eyes, shining brightly, the ribbons of fire lighting up his face and casting shadows across his cheeks.

He feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders, the burden of keeping a secret gone. The guilt at lying to his best friend was gone and his chest feels lighter, easier to breathe, and he smiled.

He watched his dearest friend play with Yunho’s fire without any fear or care in the world, with full faith and trust in Yunho to keep him safe.

 

Ah, Yunho thinks.

 

So this is what acceptance feels like.

 

* * *

 

The winter that year was cold and harsh.

Yunho knew that firewood was running out, and food sources were low. Some children in his class had fallen sick, ravaged with illness brought on by the winter chill. His parents, both doctors, were working almost non-stop, tending to each patient as best they could despite the diminishing supplies. Sometimes, there was nothing they could do beyond giving them herbal remedies, wrapping them up warmly and praying.

The thought that some of his friends might die from the cold winter terrified Yunho.

He spoke of this concern to his parents, but they shook their heads sadly. His father scooped him up into a hug, pressing him against his chest in an embrace.

“Oh, Yunho, my dear child,” he said sadly. “I wish there was something more we could do for them.”

 

That night, when Yunho had gone to bed, he overhears his parents whispering in the kitchen. They must’ve thought he was deep in sleep, because they didn’t bother lowering their voices. The children and the elderly were especially susceptible to illness, he hears, and his heart immediately goes to Hojun.

Hojun, whose parents had passed away, and lived only with his grandmother.

He thinks to Hojun’s thin winter coats, his cold hands, the meagre lunches he brings to school and with a jolt he realises that if this continued, Hojun might die.

He couldn’t let Hojun die.

He had to save them.

 

 

The next day, with his heart pounding, Yunho fetched a glass container from the cupboard at home. It was a little mason jar with a lid and handle, shaped almost like a lantern. Mumbling an excuse to his parents, he ran out the door, clutching the container to his chest.

He raced across the village and entered Hojun’s house, huffing breathlessly, and knocked hard on the door.

After a moment the heavy wooden barrier creaked open, revealing Hojun’s wary eyes.

“Yunho?”

He rushed in without a word, shutting the door behind him. Hojun’s house was small and cold, scarcely a few degrees above the outside frigid temperatures. The fireplace was damp and cold, worlds apart from the cheerfully crackling flame at Yunho’s house. The boy himself was wrapped up in all his layers, features almost completely obscured by his clothes.

Yunho realised with a start that despite Hojun's knowledge of his powers, he never asked the elder to make a fire for him, never burdening Yunho with requests for his own personal gain.

Never tried to take advantage of Yunho’s power, only accepting what he was freely given.

There may never be another as virtuous and righteous as he, Yunho realised. To be so devoid of any material comforts, yet tread on with quiet dignity, never bothering others nor asking for anything.

It further strengthened Yunho’s resolve.

 

“Yunho, what are you doing here? There’s no school today,” Hojun asked, quiet confusion in his voice.

Yunho turned to him and smiled. “I’m here to help you,” he said simply. He squatted down at the hearth, studying the old, blackened mudbricks. It was old and slightly damp, but should be able to contain the heat without difficulty.

Yunho brought his hands forward and called on his flames, and they burst onward cheerfully, eager to be called on, instantly brightening the room.

“B-But… there's no firewood, how…?”

Hojun was lost for words, and Yunho laughed at Hojun’s flabbergasted expression.

“My flames don’t need fuel to burn. This one will continue throughout winter, and keep you and granny warm.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small jar he had brought. “If you need to head out, fill this container with some of the flames. It will keep you warm and light the way.”

He pressed the jar into Hojun’s hands, smiling at the younger boy’s open-mouth surprise.

Hojun blinked, gaze shifting from the sudden fire in his house, to Yunho, to the jar currently pressed into his hands. His eyes flickered around once, twice, and Yunho could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to compute the sudden information.

Then he suddenly lunged forward and wrapped Yunho in a tight, crushing hug. Yunho stumbled backwards a step at the sudden force before regaining his balance, and wrapped his arms around the younger with equal fervour.

“Thank you, Yunho, you’ve saved us,” Hojun whispered, voice shaking. “Thank you.”

As quickly as he hugged Yunho he let go again, shouting excitedly for his grandmother. The sheer relief and gratitude in the younger boy’s eyes made Yunho grin, and he knew he’d done the right thing.

When she hobbled into the room, frowning in surprise at the sudden fire and warmth and light, she listened to Hojun’s excited explanation before her eyes filled with tears. She opened her arms and Yunho went to her unhesitatingly. She hugged him with surprising strength for her slight figure, harder than her grandson had.

“Oh, Yunho, you sweet, kind child,” she murmured, full of fondness. “Thank you, _thank you.”_

She hobbled around the small living room and promptly put on a pot of tea, digging out the scented tea leaves and her special tea set. Yunho protested at the trouble but she waved him off, reassuring him it was a day worth celebrating.

They sat together in the cosy room, warming their toes by the fire and sipping their drinks, nibbling on sweet dried fruit.

The air with filled with comfortable chatter and easy banter, Hojun and Yunho talking animatedly while granny smiled on, occasionally joining in with a witty remark and always bringing laughter.

The tea they drank that day, shared in the warmth and company of friends, Yunho thought, was especially delicious.

 

 

His parents had admonished him when they found out what he had done, but their eyes softened when he explained his reasoning and Hojun’s situation. His parents swept him up in a hug, squeezing him tight between them.

“You did well, Yunho. You’re such a kind boy, we’re very proud of you."

Despite that though, they made him promise not to spread it any further, keeping his secret closely guarded between the two families. In return, they opened their house up to those in need, sharing their warmth and welcoming everyone that needed the support.

Their house was always filled with guests these days, from newborn babies to older adults, there was always plenty of people for Yunho to chat or play with. There still wasn't much food and supplies, but when everyone came together, they were able to raise their spirits and the atmosphere was always lively.

When the guests asked where they found the firewood to burn, Yunho would launch into a story about fire-breathing dragons and captured princesses, about magicians and spells and the adults would laugh while the children listened as he spun his tales with wide-eyed belief.

He was fairly sure everyone believed his family were burning their old medical textbooks, and he never bothered to correct them.

It kept everyone safe.

 

So yes, Yunho knew that the winter was harsh and was putting pressure on everyone in the village. But their house was always warm and his days were filled with fun and joy so it always seemed distant, never really affecting them.

He didn’t know about the break-ins, robberies and thefts that were increasing in number as people grew more desperate.

He didn’t know that his house, which was always bright and lively with Yunho’s cheerfully burning flame, had become a target.

 

He didn’t know until it was much too late.

 

 

 

 

**TBC.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or kudo on your way out!  
> They serve to be great writing motivation when I'm drowning in study and work ;)


	2. Changmin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here comes Changmin! We'll be jumping back and forth between the main characters, so make sure you check which POV it is to avoid any confusion!

_“Nothing is softer or more flexible than water, yet nothing can resist it.” - Lao Tzu._

 

For as long as Changmin could remember, he had always been afraid of the water.

 

It was absurd, really. Born and raised in a small fishing village overlooking the coast, all the children were practically brought up on the sandy white beaches, spending equal amounts of time in the ocean as they did on land.

But while the other children took to it instinctively, Changmin always tried to veer far, far away from the waters.

He didn’t like the dark blue depths, the feeling of something unknown lurking in the waters, the strange shadows that drifted ominously, swirling with mystery.

He didn’t like the rolling waves that crashed onto the beaches and rocks, sending salt rain and sea foam flying, loud and deafening in their intensity.

He didn’t like the storms that it brewed, the vicious winds that ripped apart houses and upturned trees in its ferocity, leaving chaos in its wake.

Most of all, he didn’t like that the ocean _pulled_ at him. Something about the vast blue seas tugged on his very soul, consistently and unceasingly, until he couldn’t bear it anymore and his feet would bring him to the water’s edge. He always resisted as best he could, but the dull ache would increase in intensity and he was powerless to refuse, as if the ocean was a magnet that dragged him in.

It felt like the seas were calling him, beckoning him, and it terrified him.

So no, Changmin didn’t like the ocean. He didn’t like the water at all. He hated it, he loathed it, he abhorred its very existence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He lived in a small town where there was scarcely over fifty people, and everyone had a role to play. There were a few stores, a few little shops for trinkets and miscellaneous items, a small grocery and library. Everyone else lived off the ocean. Every morning, the men would hoist up their ropes and fishing lines and set off before the crack of dawn, putting their boats out for a day at sea. The women would run the households, weaving fishing nets or twisting thick coils or ropes and managing the finances of the markets.

When the children in the village weren’t mucking about in the boatyards or swimming in the waters they would be taken out to sea with the adults, learning the ways of the ocean and inheriting the knowledge of the trade.

But Changmin preferred to spend his time indoors, weaving or cooking with the other aunties and grandmothers. When he wasn’t busy with these tasks he passed his time engrossed in his reading, spending hours devouring the books in the library and inhaling the knowledge.

“My little bookworm,” his father would say with a fond smile. “Bright as a star and thirsty for knowledge, just like your mother was.” And Changmin would smile and ask him to tell more about his mother, because he didn’t remember her much but the soft look in his father’s eyes as he retold him their story made him feel like he had known her since forever.

 

At the end of the day, when the sun dipped beyond the horizon and painted the sky in hues of orange, a great golden yolk amongst the shimmering waters, he would watch as the other children run home excitedly, holding pails filled with slapping fish.

They would chatter excitedly about their day, about the tortoises and albatross and dolphins they saw, and tell grand tales of the huge waves and sharks. Then they would turn to him and ask, “what did _you_ do today, Changmin?”

And Changmin’s cheeks would flush as they laughed at him, jeering at him for his avoidance of the water.

“I learned the difference between frigatebirds and albatross!” Changmin exclaimed hotly, arms crossed.

“What’s the use of learning the difference when you don’t even go out to sea?”

“Yeah, just stick to your girlish hobbies of cooking and weaving.”

“Yeah!”

Changmin could feel the tears well up in his eyes under their combined teasing, but he gritted his teeth, determined not to cry. Big boys didn’t cry!

“It’s not girly! It’s really important and useful!”

“Exactly.” A deep voice interrupted. “You tell them, kiddo. I would starve to death if Changmin didn’t know how to cook.”

Changmin’s head snapped up at the unexpected voice. A tall man was standing behind the group of children, a mast slung over his shoulder.

Changmin laughed and pushed past the other boys, launching himself forward towards the man. “Father!”

His father laughed and wrapped Changmin in a hug, letting his son scramble up his torso like a monkey in a tree. He straightened up, Changmin in one arm and a huge wooden mast in the other, eyes stern. He cut quite an imposing figure.

“You heard my Min, it’s really important and useful. Off with you now, your parents are probably waiting.”

And with that he shooed off the children, sending them scattering, shooting Changmin a grin that he returned toothily.

 

Changmin adored his father, for his bright smiles and hearty laughs and fierce, protective nature that always made Changmin feel loved and safe. His father was tall and broad, with sun-kissed skin from long hours in the elements, hands weathered and scarred but strong. They were skilled hands that threw nets and hauled in catches with great strength, but were also exceedingly gentle.

“How was your day, Min?” he asked. Changmin beamed back and launched into an excited ramble about his day, starting from when he missed a stitch when weaving the fishing nets and getting scolded, his discoveries at the library, the interesting things he saw while running errands around the village.

His father listened and nodded and asked questions in the right places, not just letting him rant but genuinely interested in his day.

He wasn’t like other fathers, Changmin thought fondly. He wouldn’t go to the tavern and drink rowdily with other men at the end of the day, disregarding their families, nor would he go out and gamble away his money. He would always spend time with Changmin, talking or chatting or playing games. He was kind and righteous and respected by the other fishermen, and Changmin’s heart would swell with pride when he overhears other men talking about the great man his father was.

 

 

* * *

 

For as long as he could remember, Changmin had always had recurring nightmares. 

It was always the same dream. He’s standing, alone, on the water’s edge.  The ocean is calling him, pulling at him, beckoning him. He’s helpless in face of their call, like a puppet on strings, forced to move according to the puppeteer. He would try to run away but his limbs was heavy, sluggish, and wouldn’t listen to him. He would yell and shout and scream but they only brought him closer into the water, leading him further into the murky depths beyond his will.

Then the water would pull him under, fully submerging him and he was flailing, struggling and _he couldn’t breathe and he was drowning and someone please save him-_

Suddenly a woman would appear ( _his mother)_ , eyes wide with fear but lips set in a determined line. She would reach out for him, and there would be a sudden flash of warmth, and then he was falling and falling and –  

With a scream and gasp he would claw himself out of the nightmare, awaken with tears on his cheeks and sweat dotting his skin, eyes wild and panicked.

He would sit in his cot, legs tangled around sweat-soaked sheets, breathing shallowly on the verge of hyperventilation, reaching out for something, for someone that he could never quite grasp.

His father would be out of bed in a flash, instantly cradling him in a hug, whispering soothing words in Changmin’s ear as he cried and shook in his tight embrace.

“Ssssh, my boy, it’s alright, I’m here,” his father would murmur softly, over and over again.

They would stay like that, tangled around each other in a mess of sweat and tears, until Changmin’s cries eased. And when Changmin was feeling less fragile he would raise his head and give his father a watery smile, and the grin that was returned was always heart-breakingly gentle.

 

“Father,” Changmin whispered, one night when the nightmares were especially bad. He was lying in his cot after his father had tucked him in, nightmares fresh in his mind. His father was rubbing small circles gently on the back, lulling him to sleep.

“Hm?”

“Do you hate me?”

The hand stilled. “Of course not, my child. Why do you ask that?”

Changmin shifted slightly in his bed, avoiding his father’s gaze. Then he said in a quiet, sad voice. “Because I killed mother.”

There was a moment of silence. It stretched into two, three.

Changmin very determinedly kept his gaze down, afraid to meet his father’s eyes. He knew that he had affinity with water, knew that the oceans responded to his call.

He also knew that he directly caused his mother’s death.

 

He remembered when he much younger, barely five or six. He was always awkward as a child, limbs never quite coordinating the way he wanted them to, movements clumsy. He was painfully shy, and spoke quietly with a stutter.

No one wanted to play with him, and he was always alone, by himself. He was often teased by the other children, who laughed when he talked or tripped and fell over nothing. He was too slow, to weak to fight back, and could only cry and whimper as they pushed him around.

He would run to his mother in tears, and she could coo at him and cuddle him and brush away his tears, mending the rips in his trousers and kissing his away the pain of his bruises. She would talk to the other parents and yell at the children, and that would stop the bullying, for a little while. She would tell him he was a brave boy, to stay strong, and that everything would be okay.

But even she couldn't make the others stop teasing him completely.

 

One day, the bullying had been worse than usual. They poked and shoved him around on the sands, throwing small pebbles and sticks at him.

"S-Stop it," he pleaded. He wrapped his arms around his head, protecting his face. "P-please."

"What was that, C-C-Changmin?" They shouted back cruelly.

"Yeah, we c-can't u-understand y-you, Changmin!"

"Why don't you s-speak up, C-Changmin?

He begged them to stop but they didn't listen, his pleas falling on deaf ears as they jeered at his inability to dodge or even run away. They shoved him hard and he fell on his knees, then pushed him  _onto the ground_ and forced him to  _eat sand._

He squirmed and wriggled in their grasp, gasping for air and tasting the bitter granules in his mouth, filling his nostrils, ears ringing with cruel laughter of the other boys.

His eyes filled with hot tears and they dropped into the sand, leaving wet patches.

"Aw, is Changminnie crying?"

"How pathetic."

_Pathetic._

 

 

Eventually they got bored and wandered off, leaving Changmin alone on the beach, choking and gasping, trembling and shaking with sobs. He coughed and spat out the sand from his mouth, tasting the coarse grit on his tongue that mingled with his tears.

 _Why me,_ he thought bitterly.  _Why do they always do this to me?_

Something dark and ugly unfurled in his chest. The sinister blackness grew larger,  and in his childish fury he clung to it, letting it engulf him.

Feelings of anger, hatred, resentment and swelled up, and he clenched his shaking fists.

 _I hate them,_ he cried. 

_I hate them._

Changmin felt himself get angrier... and angrier and angrier, furious like he had never been before, and until he felt like he was going to explode.

He glared at the ocean, at the soft waves and lull of boats on the sea. The sea was calm that day, as if mocking him for his misfortune.

 

He felt a tug in the pit of his stomach, like a string was being pulled taught, connecting him to the sea. He felt hot and cold at the same time, completely empty and desolate but bursting with emotions.

The dark ball of resentment grew larger, a feeling of great power building inside him. He concentrated on the feeling, building and building until he couldn't contain it any further, and he directed all his frustrations and pain towards the vast oceans, shooting it out of every fibre of his very being in one great surge.

 _I wish the waves were huge, large, gigantic,_  he shouted, screamed in his head. _I wish they would come and_ _could destroy the whole village and everyone that hurt me._

 

The ground trembled.

The wind howled.

And the oceans roared.

It was like the seas had heard him.

Like it was responding to his angry demand.

 

Mere moments later, the skies darkened, and thunderous clouds rolled in. The previously gentle ocean currents turned stormy and choppy, coiling up in large waves, spitting salt water and sea foam. Thunder boomed and rain fell, turning the sky grey and ominous.

Changmin could only stare, transfixed, as the sea swelled in size, and an enormous wall of water approached, unlike anything he had ever seen. It stirred up sand and driftwood and seaweed and every unfortunate marine animal it came across, rising exponentially. The giant wave surged in height and loomed overhead frighteningly, threatening to crash over him.

 

“CHANGMIN!”

His mother.

His beautiful, brave, loving, self-sacrificing mother, who had arrive just in time to see the extreme weather change and ran out to him, unheeding of the consequences.

She scooped him up in her arms, but could see nowhere they could hide. It was too dangerous to stay outside, but their house was further up the winding roads in the heart of the village.

Changmin remembered being thrown into the bow of a nearby boat, lying atop the wet coiled lines. He remembered a flash of his mother’s face, a pale and trembling smile, before she closed the hatch, leaving him safe inside.

And her, outside, to face the storm alone.

_No!_

 

His brain must’ve overloaded and blacked out after that, because next thing he knew his father was there, wrapping Changmin in a bone-crushing hug, uncharacteristic tears streaming down his cheeks.

The skies were clear again, the oceans calm, as if nothing had occurred.

But half the village was wrecked by the freak storm, washed away by the angry seen.

And his mother was nowhere to be seen.

 

The sea had taken her away, and it was all Changmin’s fault.

 

 

“Oh, Changmin,” his father breathes, voice paralyzingly soft. “Is that what’s been bothering you, all these years?”

Changmin nodded slowly, still avoiding his father’s gaze. He was scared. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, ignoring the small tears that escaped through his clenched lids.

“Look at me, my boy.”

A hand cupped his cheek gently and Changmin turned, tentatively, to face his father. He remembered his father’s tears that day, the liquid crystal cascading down his cheeks as he clutched Changmin and sobbed.

So when he hesitantly turned to face his father, he was expecting sadness, anger, grief, or anything else in between.

 

He was not expecting the kind smile full of fondness, and fierce, determined look in his eyes.

“Do you hate me, son?”

 

_What?_

 

“Why would I hate you, father?” he blurted out, voice three octaves higher in shock.

“Because for the longest time, I hated myself, for not being there to save your mother that day.”

He turned away to gaze out of the window at the shoreline, eyes wistful.

“Why did I go out to sea that day? Why didn’t I come back earlier? I knew the ocean always called you, why didn’t I warn her not to take you to the beach without me? These questions tortured me for years after your mother left us.”

“I was angry at the world, furious even. I was beyond myself in my grief, drowning in pain and suffering and what-ifs that I lost sight of everything.

“But the sun still rises and the planet still turns. The tides still rise and fall, and we still have to pick ourselves up and live. Sometimes it’s hard. It’s very, very hard. But we’re here for a reason, we’re alive for a purpose, and we must fulfil that destiny. And you can live every day filled with pain and regret, or let it go and make the most out of your every day.

“Listen well, Changmin. It’s not anyone’s fault that your mother died,” he said resolutely. “Not yours, not mine, not even the ocean itself. No one was to blame. So don’t tear yourself up over this, because it’s not your fault.”

_It’s not your fault._

Four simple words, but the impact was immense.

Tears sprung into his eyes, and Changmin all but threw himself into his father’s arms, crying in earnest now. His shoulders shook in heaving sobs as he cried his soul out, years of guilt and loss being washed away with his tears as he was held firmly in his father’s embrace.

How many times had he cried, wondering why his mother would save someone like him. How many times had he cursed himself, cursed his stupid connection with water and inability to control it. How many times he had blamed himself for killing the most important person in their lives, for the desolate look he put on his father’s face, for his quiet sobs at night when he thought Changmin was sleeping.

Did his father secretly hate him, he would wonder fearfully, despite the warm smiles he always gave him? Did he blame Changmin for killing his wife?

 

No.

 

His father loved him, he loved Changmin, and he didn’t blame Changmin for the horrible deed he had committed.

“I’m sorry, father,” he blubbered, voice thick with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

His father tightened his embrace, clutching Changmin tightly as if through doing so he could press their souls together, could share their emotions and reduce the pain.

“Sssh, it’s not your fault,” he soothed. “The woman I loved, your mother, was a woman who could die to protect her son. And don’t forget. You are the child she gave her life to protect.”

And so they sat clutching each other that night, holding tight like a lifeline, a father and son, mourning the loss of the most important star in their universe.

But they were together, they had each other.

Everything would be okay.

 

 

 * * *

 

 

His father loved the ocean.

He understood that Changmin had a deep-rooted fear for the waters, and he respected that, never pushing his son to learn his trade.

“Minnie,” his father would say with a smile. “The ocean may be scary, but it is beautiful too.”

And his father would wrap Changmin in a hug and they would sit on the sand dunes together, Changmin snug in his lap, as they watched over the sea.

 

His father loved the sea, the way it was always moving and never still, busy and teeming with life. The way the waves rolled lazily across the surface during low tides, gently folding onto the sands with scarcely a ripple, and the way they boomed and crashed atop the shores during high tides. The way it was always a different colour, some days sapphire in its richness, other days turquoise and almost green, other evenings darkening into dark purple. The way the sea would be painted pastel pink when it rose in the mornings, and fierce red when it dipped below the horizon.

He loved the white sands, sometimes almost blinding in its brightness, and the strands of seaweed that washed ashore, pleated and thick like the curtains of a mermaid’s bedroom. He loved the tiny red crabs that bravely ventured out of their sand-holes, the white gulls that cawed excitedly overhead, and the playful schools of dolphins and graceful flying fish he would see when he went out far enough, on peaceful days when the sea was quiet and calm.

He spoke of the ocean as if describing a loved one, with tenderness and full of emotion.

 

Changmin would listen to his father speak, listen to the passion he had for the vast seas. His father’s voice was not soft nor gentle, but his words were more than just words – they were songs, poems of beauty and admiration and love.

And through his father’s eyes, Changmin thought that perhaps, perhaps he could understand a little of why his father loved the sea so much.

Perhaps one day, Changmin could even come to love the ocean himself, and become a great man just like his father.

 

That’s what his dream is.

To become just like his father.

As least, that’s what his dream was.

 

 

_Until the day the ocean took his father away from him._

 

 

**TBC.**

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or kudo on your way out!  
> They serve to be great writing motivation when I'm drowning in study and work ;)


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